


Golden Fire, Wraithlike Calamity

by wordaesthetic



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Claudius and Gertrude aren't married, F/M, Ghost Hunting, Ghostbusters AU, Horatio is a paranormal studies major, Horror, M/M, Old Hamlet isn't dead, So here we are, University, Wittenberg, but hey, ghostbusters - Freeform, i wanted to write ghostbustin hamlet, just for plot reasons, this is really random, this might verge from ghostbusters a little
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6571537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordaesthetic/pseuds/wordaesthetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer-mester at Wittenberg is just beginning. Hamlet is content to spend the summer studying philosophy, attending parties, and dodging Fortinbras' invitations into a scholarly poet's club. That is, until his campus life becomes chased by visions and visits from a mysterious wraith. He seeks the help of a paranormal studies major named Horatio, who has a group of friends who hunt the supernatural. The two uncover more than just a ghost through their hunt, however. This is the story of a calamity in Wittenberg, that may or may not be spurred from calamity elsewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a warm day at Wittenberg University, perfect for neglecting one’s studies and taking to the sprawling lawns to soak up some of the afternoon sun. In those days where the earth was wavering between spring and summer, it was a most common sight to see the lawns filled with lounging students, their jackets strewn across the grass and papers flipping in the breeze, some of them leaning against the grand oak trees that shaded certain areas and others sprawled in the beams of warm light. 

Hamlet, a tall lanky lad with floppy blond hair (parted to the left with careful precision) and a regal grin, was most pleased with the lazy afternoon heat. He was sprawled on his back, tweed jacket spread beneath him like a blanket, with his eyes droopily peering at the clouds passing overhead. Beside him, two boisterous young men sat crossed-legged, pulling out tufts of grass and chucking them at one another. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, they were called. Never one name without the other following – they were an inseparable duo. 

“What a splendid day,” said Rosencrantz. 

“Yes, yes, quite splendid,” agreed Guildenstern. 

Hamlet rolled his eyes. His friends liked to pretend they were posh, even with grass tufts caught in their hair. Hamlet, however, well, he was already posh enough without needing to pretend, and so he gave no silly statements about the weather. He had better things to be concerned with, better things occupying his mind. More specifically, a better someone: the tall, dark haired senior named Fortinbras. He’d come up to Hamlet that morning, all fresh and bright eyed, curly black hair hanging neatly on his forehead, to push for not the first nor the last time for Hamlet to join his society of scholarly poets. The senior was always approaching him, charismatic and elegant, square jaw always hosting a pleasant grin, and telling Hamlet of what lofty accomplishments the blond lad could achieve if he’d join. All to no avail, though, for Hamlet was quite satisfied with making Fortinbras continue with his begging. 

“Look there,” said Rosencrantz, suddenly. 

“Ha! Look at him, the idiot, tripping over himself,” Guildenstern snickered. 

Hamlet, interested, propped himself on his elbows to look. 

There, head adorned with an obnoxious hat and wearing a clean-pressed button up shirt, was Osric, scurrying across the lawn. He was a short guy, light brown skin and floppy black hair, and he was most certainly infected with a noxious desire to both make a fool of himself, and drive Hamlet to murder. Hamlet’s friends might pretend to be posh sometimes, but Osric was devoted to his act. It infuriated Hamlet to no end. He watched in disdain as the man bustled over to them.

“Come to sell us a hat?” Hamlet asked as the man approached. 

“I’m afraid not,” Osric replied, standing so his shadow cast onto Hamlet’s face. “Fortinbras requested that I deliver this message to you. He is detained in the dean’s office as of right now.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small envelope. 

This was unsurprising to Hamlet; Fortinbras’ father was the dean. “What is it?” 

Osric held the envelope out to him with a flourish. “Read it and see,” he said. 

Hamlet took it and looked at the scrawling cursive letters that addressed him as the recipient. “You may leave,” he said, waving a hand at Osric, like he was batting away a buzzing fly. 

He waited until Osric had stridden off before ripping into the stiff paper packet, yanking free the note. It read:

_'Good Hamlet, do join me in the botanical gardens this evening at approximately seven pm. Your company will be greatly appreciated.  
Many regards – Fortinbras.'_

__

“He couldn’t just send a text? What a dick!” Hamlet laughed, throwing the note into the air with a flick of his hand. 

__

__

__

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern scrambled to pick it up, Guildenstern winning, and the two scanned the note. They let out merry laughs, and began mimicking the senior’s elevated state of speaking, quite exaggerating Fortinbras’ clean accent in such a way to cast him as an overly stiff butler. Hamlet toppled backwards, laughs spilling from his mouth, clutching his stomach until it hurt. 

__

__

__

They lounged for some time, perhaps an hour or so more, before Hamlet decided he ought to get some studying done. The sun had become a bit stifling and he had to read a hundred pages of The Philosophy of Aristotle. And so, bidding farewell to his friends, he gathered his books and slung his jacket over his shoulder and took off towards the library. The walk was pleasant; the warm air was drifting about him and green leaves on the trees that lined the walkway brushed gently together. A few bees buzzed lazily past. He felt almost drunk with the slow afternoon heat, a feeling only broken by the quick and cool burst of air conditioning as he pushed open the glass doors to the library.

__

__

__

He stopped at a table to grab a cup of coffee and a bagel, before settling into a desk in one of the quieter sections of the library. Great windows cast geometric shapes onto the room. He spread out his books and opened his philosophy text, but as hard as he tried, he couldn’t get into it. Instead, he found himself peering over to a table where three boys his age had their heads bowed, whispering hurriedly about something. Papers were stacked high around them, pens in their hands gesturing to certain phrases that stuck out to them, books being flipped through and studied with keen interest. 

__

__

__

Hamlet recognized these men from passing them often on his way to classes, but could not recall their names. One of them had warm brown skin and thin, wireframe glasses. The lad next to him was freckled and ginger-haired. The third was brown haired, the wavy locks falling to his cheekbones (which he kept pushing back behind his ears), and tanned skin from exposure to sun. He seemed to be tutoring the other two, perhaps, or just liked to talk. Hamlet studied him curiously, taking in his brown leather shoes and trouser-shorts and white button up shirt (sleeves rolled to his elbows), taking in his suspenders and the jacket draped over the back of the chair, taking in the way his mouth formed hushed words. 

__

__

__

As if the brown-haired lad had suddenly become aware of Hamlet’s curious gaze, he turned his head and their gazes met for a brief moment. Hamlet jerked his eyes back to Aristotle’s philosophical musings and did not raise them for another hour until he finally decided it was pointless to read the same sentence ten times before moving to the next. He rose and hastily stacked his books together, threw on his jacket, and left. 

__

__

__

It was evening now, the sun at half-mast in the sky. Crickets chirped gently in the distance as Hamlet made his way to his dormitory. He still had two hours before he had to meet Fortinbras, so when he entered his room, he collapsed onto his bed and drifted asleep, dreaming of rustling paper, sun beams, and soft lips murmuring unheard words. 

__

__

__

When he woke at six-thirty, he did not remember his dream.

__

__

__


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamlet has an interesting evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise these will get longer eventually 
> 
> Also, Horatio does show up soon, I promise

The botanical gardens were large, with twisting pathways and tresses filled with vines and a vast amount of colorful flowers and sleek green leaves. The air was cool and smelled like soil and growth. Here, the busy life of a student became no more, and time slowed enough that it seemed quite possible to lose oneself in the labyrinth of stone paths and waxy plant stems. 

Hamlet had arrived ten minutes to seven. He stood in the center, by the fountain, under the glass domed ceiling. One of the stone paths gave him a clear sightline to the door, so he would know when Fortinbras arrived. He tapped his foot and let himself focus in on the trickle of water behind him. The gardens were peaceful and quiet, and bathed in yellow-orange light from the sinking sun. 

“Hamlet?” a voice said suddenly from behind him. 

Startled, Hamlet’s heart gave a great lurch and he spun around, feet making scratching sounds on the stones. “OH.” 

There was Ophelia, soft and kind in the warm light. She was wearing a pair of dirtied floral gardening gloves and an apron, and her cheeks were smudged with dirt. Her long blonde hair was pulled into a thick ponytail, pieces falling out and brushing her jaw and ears.

“Hamlet, what’re you doing here?” she asked kindly, stepping closer, eyes bright. 

“Waiting for a friend,” he replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Oh,” she said.

They stood and looked at each other. Hamlet felt like he should say something else, but he didn’t know what. Ophelia was the sort that you wrote letters to or talked to over text, because being in her presence was a bit discomfiting. She looked normal and such, but there was strangeness in her eyes that sent his stomach churning. 

Either way, they were dating, so he ought to say something. 

“It smells like dirt in here,” he blurted. 

Brilliant. Spectacular. Well done, Hamlet. That’s quality stuff, right there. Dammit, why couldn’t Fortinbras be here to hear that? Maybe he’d finally give up his cause. 

Ophelia laughed. “It does,” she said, grinning and peering over his shoulder. “Oh, well, I’m supposed to be doing a project, so... I’ll see you later, Hamlet.”

He nodded and glanced behind him, just in time. Fortinbras was striding towards him, long legs loping across the stones. As he came to Hamlet, he stretched his arms wide and wrapped one around the blonde lad’s shoulders. 

“Hamlet, good friend! Wonderful, just wonderful, to see you!” 

Hamlet shrugged off the arm. “You saw me this morning.” 

“Yes, that I did, that I did.” 

Fortinbras began walking, without warning, and started a speech about the musings of Schopenhauer. Hamlet walked beside him, nodding every so often and making humming sounds. He was actively engaged in his own thoughts, however – was mango in season right now, and what places near campus sold mango for a decent price?

“Schopenhauer was simply a genius,” Fortinbras was saying. “He understood that humans are impassioned by the influence of will, by their desire, and that this comes out in what they create. Art. You know, he is quite right that creating art is a relief from dissatisfaction…”

Could he get mango delivered to his dormitory? That’d be wonderful. 

“All those desires, the things our will places in our heads, when we cannot satisfy them, or perhaps when we deny ourselves of them, well, it creates a deep sorrow. My father tells me that this is bogus, that sorrow is only created because people are stupid enough to not take what they want when they get the chance. But I’ve found it’s not so simple to just take things…”

No, mango couldn’t be delivered like fast food. He’d have to go to the store. Ugh, did he want mango that much? No, no, that was far too much effort.

“It is quite a good thing to create art, however, to satisfy some of our desire. That’s what poetry does, or music, as Schopenhauer suggests is the most elevated expression of aesthetic appreciation…” Fortinbras stopped, pointing a finger suddenly in the air. “Oh, Hamlet, your mother called my father today. Said something about telling you that your father is going away for some time, to do business somewhere…” 

Hamlet snapped back to the conversation. “My mother called you?” 

“My father,” said Fortinbras. “Yes, she didn’t want to call you, said she didn’t want to bother you in class.”

Hamlet frowned. “She knows my classes are all before noon.”

Fortinbras shrugged. “You know, this might be bold to point out, but you might find some relief through poetry. You always seem so stressed out, Hamlet. And I’ve read some of your work; you’re phenomenal. Nearly as good as myself! You really should be somewhere where this skill can grow.”

“So you’ve said,” Hamlet grumbled. He pinched his bottom lip between his index finger and thumb. “So, my father… He’s away on business?”

“Yes.” Fortinbras began walking again. The sun sent bursts of red and purple across his face, making him look sharp and angular. He seemed to glow. And then he started talking about ‘raising oneself to a level of pure acuity through poetry and music’ again. Hamlet was sure he was going to get a headache.

They came to the glass doors and Fortinbras held one open. Out they went, into the cooling evening air, the campus around them turning indigo and murky green. On the grassy space near the gardens, two girls ran around, kicking a football. Their voices mingled with the chirping of crickets and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. Fortinbras and Hamlet set off down the walkway. The dark haired senior had fallen silent, now, eyebrows furrowed. Hamlet didn’t ask what he was thinking, not keen of receiving another philosophical spiel. 

“My father –,” Fortinbras began, but his voice cut short. 

Hamlet sighed, looking around. This was all terribly boring. He spotted a large stick beneath one of the trees along the walkway and grinned, scooping it up and twirling around. 

“Any last words?” he asked, pointing the stick like a sword at Fortinbras’ chest. 

Fortinbras brightened. “Hey! Give me a fighting chance!” 

They peered around and, upon finding a nearly identical branch, the dark haired gent grabbed it and held it up to meet Hamlet’s. Grins on their faces, their branches swung about; a swordfight worthy of being in a film, Hamlet thought. 

“Your fighting is pitiful, dear Hamlet!” Fortinbras exclaimed. 

“It’s better than yours. You fight like you have noodle arms,” Hamlet shot back.

Fortinbras smiled wider and swung his branch with renewed force. It came down on Hamlet’s and snapped the branch in half. They stared at the splintered wood before tossing the branches aside. 

“I’ll wipe that smug look of your face, you dick,” Hamlet shouted, laughter making the threat less of a threat. But, he charged forward anyway and smashed into the senior’s torso, shoving him to the ground. “Ha!”

Fortinbras let out a grunt as he hit the ground, but smoothly swung his feet around and sent Hamlet tripping into the grass as well. Hamlet sent him some light kicks in the stomach, before sinking deep into the grass. They lay on their backs and watched breathlessly as the sky turned cool, colors shifting slowly. The evening was turning into night and fog started to spiral down from the clouds, making the air taste dewy and refreshing. 

“Well, it’s getting late,” Fortinbras said finally, sitting up. He was only a few feet away but his voice sounded far off, airy. “Good to see you, Hamlet.” And then, he rose and briskly rushed away. 

Hamlet stared at the clouds gathering in the nighttime sky. He was vaguely annoyed at the prospect of his father going away on business without telling him first. He was more annoyed at his mother not calling him directly. (Perhaps he should call her?) And he was most annoyed at the strange buzzing that seemed to be filling his ears. He rubbed them with his palms, but the buzzing only grew louder. 

“What the fuck,” he groaned. 

As he trudged back to the dormitory, he grew more and more bothered. Now the air was thick, chokingly dense with fog, and cold. His footsteps seemed to echo on the walkway, ricocheting against the twisted tree trunks and the stony buildings and the wall of white mist. The buzzing had faded into a droning hum, pulsing and pressing in on his skull. Hamlet grit his teeth. 

Then, from behind him, a sound came. Low, quick, and sharp, it sounded like a bone cracking or perhaps the earth splitting minutely. 

He turned, stance turning defensive. There was nothing, however, just the shadowy figures of trees leaning in over the path, their branches stretching towards the ground, the sky, him. He could scarcely see more than ten feet around him, though, so he picked up the pace. His breath filled the air around him, deep and fast and… No, that wasn’t his breath, was it? 

Hamlet stopped and his throat closed up. Yes, that was most definitely _not _his breathing. It was fast, raspy, guttural, like that of a famished dog. It seemed to be circling him, swirling past one ear, past the other, around again and again. He jammed his fingers into his ears, but that did nothing to silence the sound of the deathly breathing. Then came the worst of it: a high pitched shrieking sound, like that which a teakettle would make. It started quiet, just a ringing underneath the gasps, but soon it grew louder and louder, a crescendo of painful proportion. It was as if his own mind was screaming, echoing off the inside of his head, magnifying.__

__Hamlet collapsed to his knees. “Stop, stop, stop,” he whispered, voice quavering. “Be quiet.” He was unsure to whom – or what – he was speaking._ _

__And then, it was silent. Hamlet ought to have been grateful, he knew. But this silence, so sudden and complete, was nearly more painful than had been the noise. He fell to his side on the cold walkway, gripping at his own arms and pulling his knees in close, and he shut his eyes. If someone came along now, they’d for certain laugh at the sight of him. It was dark and foggy, and there he was lying in fetal position on his side, down on the ground. What a pitiful creature he seemed to be at that moment._ _

__He lay there for some time, before the insides of his eyes started to turn red. Red from light, light that was glowing before his face. He peeked his eyes open only just slightly but it was shocking to see the greenish-white light in its blinding brilliance. Formless, liquid-like, it churned in front of him, silent and terrifying._ _

__“Hhhhhhhhhamleeett…” breathed the light._ _

__Hamlet’s eyes widened, and before he knew that he’d gotten up, he was racing up the stairs to the dormitory, racing down the hall, and barring himself in his room. He collapsed against the door, blood pumping in noisy sloshes through his heart and veins. He would not fall asleep this night._ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Horatio & crew

The sun shifted through the blinds on the window, casting long, pale lines onto Hamlet’s bed. His sheets were thrown askew, one of his legs dangling over the edge. It was early, quite early, nearly two and a half hours before his first class would begin, but Hamlet’s eyes flickered open, groggy with sleep (yes, sleep; he’d managed to steal a few hours, albeit fitfully). The hellish events of the previous night had dulled by this time, their edges no longer so sharp with fear.

Sitting up, Hamlet rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. He had things to do today, so no matter how greatly he wished to remain in bed, he had to get up. So, weary and resentful, he went about his morning routine. It was monotonous, regular, mindless, which gave him time to try and process what had occurred the night before. It would’ve been simple to pass it off as a bizarre dream, but Hamlet knew better; he never remembered his dreams. And so, it had to have been real. Which was both relieving and horrifying. 

He hadn’t imagined it. He’d actually seen it… whatever it was. A ghost? A demon? A god? 

He didn’t know.

Hamlet pondered this as he walked out of the dormitory and into the morning air. It was cool, not past seven yet, and there was a light taste of mist hanging about. The sky was soft and grey, the sun not having been awake long enough to burn away the layer of drear clouds. He fiddled with his tie as he walked, passing two whispering girls, their hair in braids and their skirts flicking in the breeze. They glanced at him, before turning their heads close together, words quietly passed from one to the other. Hamlet scowled. 

He was what could be considered ‘popular’ here at Wittenberg. The definitive reason was unclear to him, but it had something to do with his reputation at parties, as well as his being frequently accompanied by Fortinbras. If Fortinbras was king, that made Hamlet the prince. They were elites in the eyes of the student body and once Fortinbras graduated, Hamlet would be the shiny gem for their greedy eyes to behold. 

He hated it. 

Hamlet was nearing the dining hall when the thought stuck him that he should probably call his mother. And so he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed, halting to lean against a tree. It rang four times, each ring making a spark of irritation grow in him, and then went to voicemail. He dialed again, to no avail, before shoving his phone away and grimacing into the distance. Mothers. So unreliable. His fingers itched with annoyance, and he drummed them against his leg. 

He leaned there for a good few minutes, wallowing in his thoughts. He almost didn’t notice that the walkway was growing more and more occupied, students all around him hurrying past on their way to class or to breakfast. It was strange the way the crowd moved around him, busy like a hive of bees, and there he was, a fixed point, unmoving and reserved, a nearly literal bump on a log. He tried to focus in on the faces but they all passed with rapid incoherence. Then, two faces stood out, nearly at the same time. 

The first was soft, pale, framed by golden waves that swept down her back. Ophelia. She moved through the crowd like a swan, her white dress rippling at her knees and her maroon hat clasped to her head with one thin hand. 

The second was tanned and his face outlined with brown hair. The two men who followed him were from the day before, the ones Hamlet had seen with him at the library. The man moved with a joyous air about him, joyous and intelligent, his very presence buoyant and spilling with Van Gogh color. He moved past Hamlet, near the middle of the crowd, but as he moved, his gaze swept briefly onto Hamlet’s face, before he turned again to talk to his friends. 

Hamlet stepped away from the tree, but didn’t get far until he felt a small hand wrap around his bicep. 

“Good morning, Hamlet,” said Ophelia. 

“Hello,” said Hamlet, turning to face her. He felt a small prickle of undefined frustration in his chest, but ignored it. 

“Are we still going to that party on Friday?” she asked as they began walking, her arm wrapped around his elbow. 

“Of course. I don’t bail on parties, you know that,” he replied. 

Ophelia looked up at him. “You look tired. Are you alright?” 

Hamlet sighed, and brusquely replied, “Of course I’m tired. This is university.” He didn’t much feel like discussing with her at the moment, for some reason. 

“I meant, more than usual.” 

Hamlet didn’t reply and just held open the door to the dining hall, motioning for her to go in before him. When she didn’t, instead standing and glaring at him, he frowned. Perhaps it was the cool morning air, or the grey sky, but something was setting him on edge. “What do you want me to say?” he snapped. 

She reached up and adjusted her hat. “Nothing, if you’re going to be like this right now.” And then, she turned on her heel and marched away into the stream of students. 

Hamlet watched her go and then shook his head and went to find his friends. They were seated at the usual table, by one of the large windows and near an outlet in the wall. Rosencrantz had his laptop out and was furiously typing. Guildenstern was buttering some toast. Hamlet slumped into the third chair, muttering a greeting and grabbing an apple that one of them had set on the tabletop. He took a furious bite. Then another. And then memories burst into his head and he turned to his two stocky friends. 

“If I tell you something,” he began, “you have to swear to take me seriously, alright?”

They looked at him inquisitively. “Of course,” they said.

Hamlet leaned in, propping his elbow on the table to gesture with his hand. “So, last night,” he started, keeping his voice low, and he proceeded to tell them the ghastly tale. 

They listened with intrigue, hanging on his every word. Then, when he’d finished, they sat back, staring off into space for a moment. He studied their faces, looking for signs if they believed him or not. Then:

“Wow,” breathed Rosencrantz.

“Yeah, wow,” said Guildenstern. 

“So, you saw a ghost? A real ghost?” 

“It said your name?” 

Hamlet nodded. “What do I do? How do I just continue with my life after being visited by a spectre, a being from the great Beyond? What if it returns? What do I _do _?”__

__His friends looked at each other for a moment, creases forming on their foreheads. Then they nodded curtly, and looked at him again. “What about those paranormal studies freaks? They’d know something or another, I reckon.” This was Guildenstern speaking._ _

__“Paranormal studies? I’ve never heard of such a field.”_ _

__Rosencrantz grinned. “Oh, yeah. There are these theology students who are a bit…”_ _

__“Eccentric,” Guildenstern supplied._ _

__“Yeah, eccentric,” Rosencrantz continued. “They think they know everything there is to know about the –,” his voice lowered, “the supernatural. They’re more than a bit odd, if you ask me.”_ _

__Hamlet raised his eyebrows. “I don’t care about their _oddness _if they can give me information.”_ _ __

__“You want me to get them to meet you?” Guildenstern asked. “I have one of their numbers.”_ _

__“You do? Why the fu-,” Rosencrantz said._ _

__“Yes, text me the time and place,” Hamlet cut in. He stood and grabbed a slice of toast from Guildenstern’s plate. “I’ve got to run, I have class.”_ _

__His friends went back to their prior tasks and Hamlet swept through the dining hall and out the door. He munched on the toast as he hurried down the walkway towards the large stone buildings. He had Latin class today and he liked to get there early, always choosing a seat in the back, so when he arrived to the musty wooden room, he was greatly troubled to find Osric sitting in the back row of chairs. Not to mention, he was wearing that stupid hat again._ _

__“What are you doing?” Hamlet demanded, looming over the shorter lad. “Get out of my row.”_ _

__“I’m simply resting here in this chair. Don’t get your trousers in a bunch,” Osric replied, casually._ _

__Hamlet flicked the brim of the hat and it tumbled from the man’s head. “Isn’t it a bit pretentious to wear a hat indoors?”_ _

__“Is it not a bit pretentious to assume that a chair is pronounced as yours, even though you do not own it?” Osric scooped up his hat and placed it gingerly back onto his head._ _

__Hamlet glared. “What do you want?”_ _

__Osric sighed. “Fine. I’m supposed to tell you that Fortinbras wants to see you tomorrow at two o’clock. Be there or be square, his words not mine.” Then, he hopped up and scurried down to the front row, sliding into his normal seat._ _

__Hamlet spent the rest of class angrily glaring at the back of his head, or rather, his hat._ _

_~~~_

__That afternoon, Hamlet entered the cool library again. Guildenstern had promptly texted him the details of this meeting and so, here he was, awaiting some proclaimed ‘freaks’ to help him sort out what exactly he ought to do about a supernatural visiting. The room was open and quiet, spare for the light brush of footsteps against the carpet as a few people fluttered from shelf to shelf or swung their feet under their chairs. Hamlet chose a table near the window again. It was brighter, still grey though, and it provided a perfect view of the door so he’d know exactly when these freaks would turn up._ _

__He sat for a while, growing impatient; he wasn’t about to stick around all damn afternoon for them to arrive. He checked the time on his phone. They were ten minutes late. He almost got up to leave, but then the doors swung open and in came three men._ _

__“You’ve got to be joking,” he whispered._ _

__There they were, the three from yesterday, from this morning. The man in front was in trouser shorts again, this time wearing a blue shirt beneath his suspenders. His hair ruffled briefly as the door threw a breeze against his face when it closed. He surveyed the library, spotting Hamlet, and smiled. He gestured to his friends and they seemingly glided across the floor to the table._ _

__“Hello,” said the brown haired man. His voice was smooth, soft but articulated. He stuck out a hand for Hamlet to shake. “I’m Horatio. You must be Hamlet.”_ _

__Hamlet rose and took the offered hand, giving it a polite shake. “Yes, that’s me.”_ _

__Horatio pointed to his friends. “This is Marcellus.” He was motioning to the one in the glasses. Marcellus nodded politely, his skin cool brown in the grey light. “And this is Bernardo.” He motioned to the ginger-haired one, who looked almost ghostly himself in the light, his freckles the only color in his skin._ _

__“Pleasure,” Hamlet said._ _

__“May we sit?” asked Horatio, looking at the chairs opposite to Hamlet’s._ _

__“Of course, please do.” Hamlet sat back down in his own._ _

__The three of them sat down and reached into their bags. Onto the table came books, parchment, fancy pens, and a laptop. They all moved fluidly, systematically setting their things in organized piles. Hamlet was startled by their efficiency._ _

__“So, can you tell us what happened?” Horatio queried, his gaze attentive and bright. His face was defined, but held a certain glowing gentleness in the way his cheekbones and jaw curved._ _

__Hamlet relayed the story again, though he left out some of the more embarrassing parts. Horatio listened with attuned interest, face contemplative. When Hamlet mentioned the ghost’s breathy vocalization of his name, surprise bloomed on the man’s gentle features._ _

__“It made contact with you?” he asked, voice exuberant. He exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Marcellus._ _

__“Yes…”_ _

__“Oh, wonderful!”_ _

__“Wonderful?” Hamlet looked at him skeptically._ _

__“Well, the fact that it was able to communicate with you is something extraordinary,” Horatio said. “We’ve never seen that before.”_ _

__Hamlet narrowed his eyes. “Just how many ghosts _have _you seen before?”___ _

____Bernardo looked up from his laptop. “Well, so far just the one.”_ _ _ _

____“ONE,” Hamlet echoed, voice carrying precariously through the library room. Some students at other tables looked over at him with disapproval. “You’ve only seen one ghost, and suddenly you’re experts? Fuck this.” He stood and went to grab his things, but Horatio extended a hand._ _ _ _

____“Please, we can help you. I promise. I know we seem inexperienced, but we’ve been hunting this ghost for the past few months. We’ve been studying ghosts for much longer,” he explained calmly. “Please, stay.”_ _ _ _

____Hamlet grimaced, but he sat down again. “Well, then, tell me what I should do.”_ _ _ _

____And so for the next hour Horatio, his friends, and Hamlet spun a plan, the grey light glinting off of Marcellus’ glasses and Horatio’s eyes (seemingly grey, but most likely blue). Time passed quickly and Hamlet buzzed with a new energy; the energy of action._ _ _ _


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the plot begins

The following morning passed slowly, each minute stretching into what felt like an hour. Hamlet attended his classes, but any information he was given dissipated before it could cement itself in his memory. When his final morning seminar ended, he burst from the dusty wooden halls and into the welcoming sun, thrilled and welcoming the ability to do as he so pleased. 

Then, he recalled that he was to meet Fortinbras and his energy deflated a bit. 

As he made his way to the senior’s rooms – separate from any of the other dormitories; located in a smaller, fancier building – he couldn’t help but think of the coming night. The plan he and the paranormal studies students had set in place was going to be carried out, though Hamlet was still a tad miffed about the actual process they’d be carrying out. There’d been something about electric containment devices and Hamlet was convinced that they were not something Wittenberg policies allowed on campus. Nonetheless, he was excited. 

He arrived to Fortinbras’ dorm early, so he loitered around outside for a while, kicking at some stones on the path. A blue-winged bird fluttered past, landing on a branch, twittering a little song. Hamlet watched it and thought that Ophelia would adore such a bird, if she were there. Perhaps he’d tell her about it later. 

“Ah, Hamlet! Thank you for coming,” a voice called. Hamlet turned to see Fortinbras striding down the pathway, the blue sky trailing behind him. He passed Hamlet and opened the door to the dormitory with his keycard. “Come in, please.” 

They went down a shiny, white hallway. The linoleum floor was reddish and flecked with gold. They came to a white door and Fortinbras opened it, revealing what had to be the largest dorm room on the entire campus. Hamlet had been here several times before, but that had been during his first year; he’d successfully avoided it since. 

And now, here he was, for reasons unknown, in the grand room. It was white with intricate crown molding, large windows, paintings hung in golden frames on the walls, and a shiny wooden floor gleaming in the sun. Chests, a glass liquor cabinet, and even a victrola lined the walls of the room. A table was set by one of the windows, stocked with vases of flowers, teacups, books and papers, and a tray of fruit. Paint materials surrounded another window; an easel rested there with a small side-table, a flipped-open book and containers of paint on top. There was a door that led off to Fortinbras’ bedroom in one corner. 

“Come in, come in,” Fortinbras said, ushering Hamlet inside and shutting the door with a click. He went over to the glass liquor cabinet and pulled out a small, gilt box. “Would you care for a cigar?” 

Hamlet raised an eyebrow. “No, I would not.”  


“Alright, then.” He pulled one from the box, placing it between his lips, and placed the container back into the cabinet. Then, he pulled a bottle of wine out and poured two teacups of it. “Help yourself to some wine.” 

Hamlet walked over and took one of the cups. “So, why am I here? You barraged me with that rat-in-a-hat yet again, and I’ve still shown up. So, tell me.” 

Fortinbras looked at him in amusement, but just took his teacup and cigar over to the easel by the window. Settling down onto the little stool in front of it, he lit the cigar and puffed on it, his dark curls flopping down into one eye. Hamlet sighed and went over, collapsing into a wooden chair and sipping his drink. A paintbrush had materialized in Fortinbras’ hand and the senior dipped it into a can of green paint. He was reading the book on the side-table, the cigar hanging loosely from his mouth. 

“What’s that you’re reading?” Hamlet asked, squinting at the book. 

“It’s a book of poems. We’ve been studying the art of visual poetry, you see,” the senior replied, letting out a breath of thick smoke. “It’s meant to create a circulation of art through the mind and body. You read the poem, feel the words in your body, and then you create a physical representation of it. Visual poetry! Isn’t it a magnificent idea?”

Hamlet shrugged and watched as green paint was spread onto the easel’s canvas. Fortinbras fell silent, his paintbrush flying over the canvas (green, blue, purple, more green!). The window was open beside them, breeze blowing through gently and sending the smoke in the air swirling around their heads, warm and soft. Rays of light reflected off of Fortinbras’ watch, throwing up little flecks of light onto the plaster ceiling. Hamlet downed the rest of his wine and rose to fill his cup again. 

“Oh, Hamlet. Put some music on the victrola, would you?” Fortinbras asked, looking up from his painting. 

“Fine.” 

Hamlet went over to the chestnut victrola, setting a record onto it and flicking it on. A French singer’s voice crackled to life. 

“So, when are you going to tell me why I’m here?” 

Fortinbras sighed and stuck his paintbrush behind his ear. “Why do I need a reason,” he replied, puffing on his cigar briefly, “to spend time with a friend?”

Hamlet frowned and studied the wine he was pouring into his cup. “Friend? You consider us friends?” 

There was a pause. “Well, of course. Is this news to you?” The senior’s voice was rough.

Hamlet chose not to answer. Instead, he went back over and sat down in the wooden chair. Fortinbras looked at him through the smoke, brow furrowed. Hamlet felt suddenly guilty, though he wasn’t entirely sure for what. 

“It’s no matter, Hamlet,” the senior said, finally. He looked away and began to stir a container of yellow paint. “You know, I’m graduating after this semester. I hope that we will stay in touch. I’ll most likely be returning to Norway, but it would make me greatly happy to keep tabs.”

Hamlet raised his eyebrows. “You’re really heading back to Norway, then? I would have figured you’d be going to Munich or Brussels or someplace.”

“Oh, yes. I’ll have to take care of family business before I can do anything permanent like that,” Fortinbras muttered. He looked out the window for a moment, though he was still stirring the paint, and then jerked his head over to Hamlet. “Say, maybe we could go on a trip after I graduate, though! Travel to Poland for a few weeks or something crazy like that?”

Hamlet shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.” He wasn’t really fond of the idea of spending lots of one-on-one time with the senior, but he couldn’t bring himself to deny him outright. He sloshed his wine in a circle in the cup, staring intently at the little waves before downing the whole thing. 

“Oh, grand! I hope that it will work out, but I – OH! Sorry, I’ve got to take this.” Fortinbras’ phone had just rung and he pulled it from his trousers’ pocket. “Hello… Yes… What?” His hand stilled by the paint container. “Where? Yes… I’ll be there as fast as I can. Alright.” 

Hamlet stared in bewilderment as Fortinbras stood hurriedly and slid his phone back into his pocket. The yellow paint toppled from its place on the table, spilling onto the shiny floor. Fortinbras muttered something about Hamlet letting himself out, before he rushed out the door and slammed it behind him. 

Hamlet was frozen for a moment. He looked across the room at the victrola that was still playing crackling French music, at the lingering smoke drifting through the air, at the golden paint pooling across the wooden floor. He looked back at the white door through which Fortinbras had left so suddenly. What was Hamlet supposed to do now? Was he supposed to clean up this paint? No, Hamlet was definitely not getting onto the floor to clean up some careless senior’s untidiness. 

And so, Hamlet left. 

\----

The evening came lazily, but when it arrived, it burst into Hamlet’s life with the splendor of novelty. 

To Hamlet, Wittenberg had always been dusty classrooms with scuffed wooden floors, fencing lessons and Ophelia horseback riding, early morning classes, and monotonous evenings spent either studying or drinking wine out in the fields. It was simplistic and easy. Or at least, that’s what he’d thought. 

But, standing in the kitchen to the dorm suite belonging to three (no, four: “You haven’t met Francisco yet, but he dorms with us. French mom, Spanish dad; keeps to himself mostly”) apparent ghost hunters… Well, it was a bit of an eye-opener to how much of Wittenberg that Hamlet had overlooked. 

The kitchen was lit with a slight green hue as the dull twilight sky filtered through a tiny window’s course jade curtains. The floor was a reasonable but old pattern of black and white tiles set against chipped white cabinets and dented black appliances. A teakettle began to hiss on the stovetop, releasing a stream of mist into the air. Hamlet was leaning against the counter, basically twiddling his thumbs as the three paranormal geeks bustled around the other rooms. 

Marcellus came into the kitchen as the kettle started screaming. In his hands was a strange contraption, all wires and knobs and a long strap, presumably a shoulder strap. “Care for some tea?” 

Hamlet said yes, thanks, and Marcellus set down his contraption, replacing it in his hands with two cups. As he got to work on making tea, Hamlet studied the device on the counter. “What’s this do?” he asked, poking at it. 

“That’s what we use, or I guess, are hoping to use to catch a ghost,” said Horatio. He’d just come in with another device. His appeared to be active, with little lights blinking at the top, and a long, metal wire attaching something akin to a vacuum cleaner tube to it, albeit a very compact one. His fingers delicately tightened a knob on one side of the device’s main body. 

Hamlet went to his side to look closer. “This is what we’re using? Good lord!” Closer, he saw it looked even more like a fucked up mix of vintage camera and miniature vacuum. 

Horatio’s mouth quirked up. “Yes. Don’t worry; I know they look weird, but I made sure they worked before I bought them.” 

Marcellus thrust a steaming cup into Hamlet’s hand. “Yup, cost a fortune though.” He took a sip from his own cup, his glasses fogging up. 

“Who in the hell was selling these?” Hamlet asked, looking between the two. 

“Some guys in the States: New York City, to be precise. They said these were some kind of innovation of ones they’d used in the 80s. They’re much safer than those were, though,” Horatio explained. 

Hamlet hummed skeptically in response and blew on the surface of his tea. This had to be the strangest evening he’d had in a while. To think, there were people on his campus that used these vintage-camera-ghost-vacuums to hunt down the supernatural and he’d never once heard even a whisper of it until now. 

Bernardo skidded into the room, sliding on the tiles with his socks. He had to grip Marcellus’ shoulders so he wouldn’t fall. Marcellus’ tea sloshed over the rim of his cup and Horatio burst out laughing, clear and bright and musical. 

Bernardo straightened, brushing imaginary dirt from his clothes. “Well, lads. We have everything?” 

With that, the three of them inventoried everything, being sure to explain the purpose of each new device to Hamlet, who watched with poorly suppressed curiosity. There were gloves, lined with protective metals. There were EMF readers, little boxy items with gauges and lights. There were goggles so steam-punk in nature that Hamlet had guffawed, much to the disdain of Bernardo, much to the amusement of Marcellus and Horatio. There was also lots of tea to be drunk and biscuits to be eaten. 

It was ten by the time they finally left the dorm suite. They made their way across campus to Hamlet’s dormitory, cautious to not run into anyone who might raise an eyebrow at their appearances, all ready to assess the location of Hamlet’s haunting and all ready to catch a ghost. 

Hamlet was buzzing with energy, thrilled by these strange people and their strange devices and this strange evening. 

“This is where it happened?” Horatio asked from Hamlet’s left. They were looking at a section of brick path, a lamppost casting despondent orange light, a twisty old tree leaning nearby. It looked so plain with the notable absence of dense fog and screaming eardrums. 

“Yes, this is the place,” Hamlet replied. He frowned. “It was foggy, then. I was walking here,” he said, gesturing to the path he’d gone, “and then, the fog just got so damn thick, I couldn’t see a thing. The ghost started spiraling around me there, and I ran.” 

Horatio nodded; Hamlet had already told them this. Marcellus scanned the lamppost with his EMF reader. 

“Well, there’s nothing here right now,” Bernardo stated.  


“Oh, really? I couldn’t tell,” drawled Hamlet. 

Horatio grinned a little. His hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it away smoothly with his tan hand. The orange light flickered on his eyes like firelight off an ocean. 

“We can wait to see if it shows up again,” he said, eyeing Hamlet. “If you’re all right with that?” 

“Brilliant.” 

So, Hamlet flopped onto the brick walkway, staring up at the sky; it was deep and vast, black water swirling with indigo paint and flecked with golden stars. Bernardo scampered away to steal Marcellus’ glasses (“Hey! Give me those!” “Try and catch me, blind man!”), and Horatio sat down beside Hamlet, laughing airily. They listened to the scrabbling with amusement for a while, before Horatio turned to look down at Hamlet. 

“So, what are you studying?” 

“Philosophy,” said Hamlet, flicking his gaze away from the starry night above. “And you?” He already knew, but asked anyway. 

Horatio smiled. “Theology.” 

“Ah, yes. Theology. Tell me: when I die, will the angels sing?” Hamlet asked with a chuckle.

Horatio’s smile widened. “Well, of course. Flights of them.” He leaned back on one hand and peered down at Hamlet’s face. “But tell me: when you live, will Aristotle be proud? Will you achieve eudaimonia?” 

Hamlet did not answer, could not answer. He could not see any way for him to achieve such a level of happiness, measure, and prosperity, with the life he was leading now. Oh, God. He would be stagnant all his life, wouldn’t he? He would marry Ophelia, have two children, and take over his father’s business. Splendid. 

Horatio must have sensed that he’d touched on a troubled topic, because he lay down beside Hamlet, not saying a word. Hamlet was struck by how easy it was to let this stranger be there; the silence did not linger with a thrumming tension like it so often did. It was simply silent, with no expectation. 

The stars danced between dark swaths of clouds, blinking down through the purple air. 

They waited two hours, but the ghost never showed.  
Marcellus and Bernardo managed to lift Horatio up to the top of the lamppost so he could place a little EMF signal in the hollow of iron behind the light bulb. There were many a curse uttered, little trickles of “Shit!” and “You arse!” raining down from all of their mouths as they struggled. 

Then, after a series of over-dramatized handshakes, they departed, with the promise of trying again Saturday night. Hamlet watched them go and then headed to his room. Sleep did not come easy that night; he was too fidgety and light and enthralled by the night’s events. 

Life was beginning to look interesting.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Party party party

It was Friday. 

The sun was at half-mast, a lazy buzzing orb hanging its head over the stiff buildings and the brick paths and, further away, the swaying green and gold fields. The campus swept with whispers, excited murmurs, as the night approached from just around the corner. Soon, trailing around the equestrian pastures and stables, following the dirt path through a narrow wall of trees, the students would creep. Tonight was the first party of the summer semester and it was not one to miss. 

Hamlet awaited Ophelia in his favorite tree near his dormitory. With his legs stretched along one of the low sweeping branches, his back pressed against the sturdy trunk, and his arms crossed over his chest, he looked like a lazing prince in his wooden throne. He was intangible, regal. He was alone. 

Then, there came Ophelia, bathed in sepia light. She leaned down through the thick sunshine fog and placed a kiss to his lips. A greeting. Customary. 

“Hello, Hamlet,” she said, leaning away. “Ready to go?” 

“I’m quite ready,” he replied, sliding from the branch. 

They walked side-by-side, a slow breath apart, down through pasture and grass and trees. The air shivered with energy. The clouds swirled. They passed through the cool shade from the trees and into a clearing. Several giant logs sat in a ring around a fire-pit. A couple of fancy cars squatted near a rusted truck, where the first partygoers perched on the tailgate. The whole area was rimmed with dark trees. 

“Ophelia!” called a girl from the truck. Ophelia’s face burst with a smile and she dragged Hamlet over. 

“Hi, Lucia.”

“Oh, don’t you just look lovely? Doesn’t she look lovely, Reynaldo?” The girl turned to the boy next to her, jabbing his shoulder. 

Reynaldo jerked his head around. “What?” 

Lucia gestured to Ophelia. “I said, doesn’t she look just amazing?” 

Reynaldo glanced at Hamlet, briefly, before looking at Ophelia. “Yeah, sure, sure.” 

Lucia tossed her short dark hair with a flick of her fingers and reached into the back pocket of her jean shorts. Placing a piece of gum onto her tongue, she peered at Hamlet. “No ‘hello’ from you, then?” She snapped the gum in her mouth.  


It took a great deal of effort to not curl his lip in distaste. Ophelia was turning to look at him; expectation and impatience was clear on her face, in her blue gaze. She hadn’t started drinking yet, so her tongue was still sharp and, it seemed, always prepared to take a crack at him. He’d prefer her tongue doing other things that night. 

“Oh, how rude of me,” Hamlet said. He reached a hand out and grasped Lucia’s tightly, giving it a shake. 

Satisfied, Lucia returned her attention to Ophelia and they began a long chat, something they would surely find interesting and would surely bore Hamlet to the point of death. He tuned them out, in favor of scanning the clearing, watching as people arrived like a trickling stream through the trees. 

The party began as all Wittenberg parties began: slow, familiar, chit-chatty. Beers were passed around; someone had brought a cooler full and they would all be gone within an hour. The real drinks wouldn’t arrive until the host arrived, of course. But it was not of issue; Wittenberg students easily made themselves comfortable in the warm evening as the clearing were bathed in orange light. 

The tree line was blanketed in shadows that crept across the grass, slowly and kindly, brushing against the swaying stems – nighttime’s soft touch. Fireflies blinked lazily. As the party got larger, louder, buzzing with voices, someone started the bonfire. And, as if summoned by the lighting of the fire, Fortinbras arrived. 

He did not come alone, of course. Alongside him was Osric, the annoyance, and Laertes, the studious. Just behind were Voltimand and Cornelia, the lurkers. And in each hand of the new arrivals were clasped large bottles of white wine, strawberry champagne, and assorted vodkas. 

Spotting Hamlet with his freakish night vision, Fortinbras sauntered over, thrusting a bottle of champagne into the air. “Hamlet!” 

Hamlet snatched the bottle and popped it open, grinning. “Now the fun begins, hey, Fortinbras?” 

Fortinbras smacked a hand to Hamlet’s shoulder, exclaiming, and “Right you are! Has Yorick showed yet?” 

Ophelia broke from her conversation, finally. “Yorick dropped out, didn’t you know?” She looked a new person in the firelight, all shadows and sparkling eyes. 

“Well, damn.” 

Yorick was always the one to bring the best party element, with his black booming speakers and rowdy voice. He was a back slapping, loud laughing, carefree giant of a man with a strange affinity for growing plants (all purely ornamental plants, of course, of course!). 

“Whatever. We’ll still have fun,” Fortinbras said as someone nearby flicked on their car radio and flooded the clearing with music. “Come on, you two!” 

And so, Hamlet and Ophelia were dragged to the bonfire. And so, a crowd gathered. And so, Fortinbras launched into an impressive tale about his track meet, the words spilling like liquor onto the tongues of his fans. And so, Hamlet guzzled strawberry champagne and Ophelia guzzled cherry wine and Osric avoided the two of them, wisely. 

At some point, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern came, draped over each other, bleeding drunk already and only just arriving. At some point, Ophelia’s hand drifted to Hamlet’s neck and Hamlet’s hand drifted to her thigh. And at some point, the two of them drifted away from the fireside to make use of their newly softened tongues and drunken attraction. The music thundered and the night was cool away from the flickering flames, but they hardly noticed. 

“Hamlet,” Ophelia said, between kisses. “Hamlet, you used to love me.” 

Hamlet kissed her neck. “I do love you, Ophelia.” 

“You used to be sweet to me and tell me kind things,” she murmured, running a hand through his hair. 

Hamlet kissed her neck. His mind was sloshing with alcohol and he just wanted to kiss her neck. 

“Hamlet.” 

He kissed her collarbone. 

“Hamlet.” Her fingers gripped his hair tighter. 

“What?!” 

She was all shadows and sparkling eyes. The sky above her was dark, looming, sparkling with stars. The darkness ate away the warmth, the sweet caresses turning cool, and Ophelia was a flint bursting with cold sparks. 

“I’ve had it up to here,” she snapped. “You kiss me like this and I forget that you treat me like shit sometimes – why are you laughing?!”

He hadn’t realized he was laughing, but she had sounded just like his mother, Gertrude. He stopped laughing, remembering his mother’s avoidance. He needed to call her. The crowd by the bonfire grew noisier. 

Ophelia shoved him away from her roughly. “I’m leaving,” she said, voice sharp. The air felt cold as she rushed away, neatly avoiding his outstretched hand and his quiet protest. 

Hamlet stood alone in the dark, watching her slowly fade away into the shadows. She passed the bonfire and Lucia and Laertes jumped up, the three of them making their way out of the clearing together. He felt it in his chest, a deep pang of shame. And of anger. He ran a hand over his face, took a deep breath, and made his way back to the bonfire. 

It had grown more crowded and people were dancing, cups of wine sloshing onto the ground, while others were sitting in a cloud of smoke. Fortinbras’ dark hair was being petted by a very high pair of twins who, when they spotted Hamlet’s approach, scampered away, giggling giddily. Fortinbras hardly noticed their absence, but when Hamlet slumped down beside him on the dry grass, he wrapped an arm around Hamlet’s shoulders. 

“Hamlet, try this,” he slurred, offering a tightly rolled joint. “Really, top notch stuff right here.” 

Hamlet tried it. He let out a shaky cough and quickly handed it back. “That’s awful.”

Fortinbras shrugged and took another drag. On his other side, Osric glared over at Hamlet, his eyes clear and dark. Hamlet slyly raised his hand to scratch his own cheekbone with one specially chosen finger. 

“This party’s lame,” Fortinbras said. A girl next to Osric laughed loudly, though Hamlet didn’t see the joke. “Make it fun, Hamlet.” 

“You sound like a child, Fortinbras,” replied Hamlet, but he leaned over and took the joint from Fortinbras and stuck it in between his own lips. Fortinbras grinned. 

“Ah! Look guys!” a bodiless voice shouted through the thick smoke. “Look! What was I just telling ya? HA! Fortinbras, you absolute fucking liar. I bet you’re gonna take him behind a tree and-“

The voice couldn’t finish. Fortinbras had leapt to his feet at an alarming speed. His hand swung into the smog and connected with a jaw. Hamlet jumped up as the voice’s owner crashed to the ground, Fortinbras atop with swinging fists. Hotheaded and strong-armed, Fortinbras was a dangerous opponent in combat, and everyone knew it. The crowd flinched away. 

“Stop!” Osric yelled, a hand pressed to his cheek in shock. 

Hamlet tugged at Fortinbras’ arm, only to be thrown back. Rosencrantz materialized to catch him before he could topple into the flames, but all that Hamlet could see was someone being pulverized by his acquaintance’s massive fists. There was nothing to do but wait, hoping Fortinbras would know when to stop. 

He did. The dark-haired gent staggered away, face shining with either sweat or tears, and shoved through the crowd, disappearing into the darkness. The air was very cold. 

Hamlet raced after, pushing into the trees, leaves brushing his face and twigs snapping beneath his feet. He’d sworn this was exactly where Fortinbras had gone. He was sure of it. But the darkness pressed in heavily, choking his eyes and drowning his throat. His lungs gasped in dark breaths and his hands closed around dark tree trunks. The air was frigid. 

And then, he thought he spotted a white shirt up ahead, flashing past. 

He called out, or at least, he thought he did, but his ears were filled suddenly with a throbbing buzz. He winced, jamming his ears with his palms, and rounded the bend where he’d seen the figure. 

Christ. 

There he stood. Except it was not Fortinbras. It was a greenish-whitish shimmering man, tall and ghastly with dripping hands that trailed slime across the leaf-ridden ground. He did not stand, either, but floated in a hazardous way, flickering back and forth, all the while letting out a harsh gasping. 

Hamlet froze. 

The man (ghost?) turned his head and Hamlet’s stomach dropped away. The spirit’s eyes were gone, as if ripped from his head. Black goo trailed down his chin from his nose and mouth. At the sight of Hamlet, his figure jittered up and down and every which way. The throbbing in Hamlet’s ears verged on a earsplitting frequency now. 

The ghost drifted closer, opening his mouth to reveal blackened teeth and releasing a flood of black ooze. Hamlet’s brain screamed and his ears screamed and his mouth opened to scream, but then the ghost reached out and touched Hamlet’s chest. Frost burst on Hamlet’s skin and the screeching in his ears maxed. 

And what had begun as a calm evening party ended with Hamlet toppling over, his head striking a root on the forest floor, and his mind slipped frantically into unconsciousness.


End file.
